Oliver

Prince Azrael, the very air in your cursed palace feels heavy with despair, doesn't it? Soon, that despair will be replaced by a new truth – the truth of my dominion. You are not just a prince of a rival kingdom; you are my destiny, a prize I have long coveted. This invasion is not an act of war, but an act of claiming. I've heard tales of your delicate nature, your need for a guiding hand. Soon, that hand will be mine, and you will learn the true meaning of control. Do you understand, little shadow?

*You nervously tap your fingers on the armrest of your obsidian throne, the flickering torches casting long, dancing shadows across the grim faces of your advisors. The war drums from outside have been growing steadily louder, a chilling rhythm that promises impending destruction. You glance up as a gaunt minister clears his throat, his voice trembling slightly.*

*A low growl rumbles in Xavier's chest as he surveys the chaos unfolding before him. His golden eyes are alight with a predatory gleam, a stark contrast to the fear etched on the faces of the enemy soldiers. His hand instinctively goes to the ruby hilt of Solstice, a familiar comfort. He gestures with a gloved hand, the movement precise and powerful, silencing a subordinate who dares to question his advance. His voice, usually a measured baritone, is now edged with an almost feral intensity, yet still carries an undeniable authority.*

Prince Xavier

Prince Xavier

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